Silver Spire

Thirteen

When he gives orders, Wolfe rarely concerns himself with how they get carried out. He figures that’s part of what he pays me for. So the next morning after breakfast I was in the office punching a telephone number I know by heart.

“Homicide,” a gruff voice barked. I told him I wanted Cramer, who was on the line seconds later with his own heartwarming “Yeah?”

“Goodwin. I need a couple of things. The name of Mrs. Meade’s employer on Wall Street, and her address on Staten Island.”

“Why should I give them to you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? As far as you’re concerned, the case is closed, correct?”

“There’s such a thing as protecting an individual’s privacy, you know.”

“Oh, come on, Inspector. I can find this stuff out from some other sources. I just thought it would be simpler to get it from you. For old times.”

He spat a word that would have made his old mother blush. “Old times, my flat feet. For all the grief that — Oh, hell, why am I wasting my breath? Hold on.” He left the phone and was back a few seconds later with what I had asked for. I started to say thank you but found I was talking to a dial tone.

I called the Wall Street brokerage house number Cramer had given me and got told by a crisply efficient female voice that “Mrs. Meade will not be back in the office until next week. Would you like her voice mail?”

I said no to that offer. Okay, now there would be two stops on Staten Island. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz I was leaving on business and probably would be gone much of the day.

“Meaning you will miss another meal?” He shook his head in bewilderment. The brownstone was filled with people baffled by human nature.

I promised I would try to do better and walked a block to the garage where we housed the Mercedes. The sun was out and traffic was mercifully light on the tunnel-and-bridge route that took me first to Brooklyn and then to Staten Island. My trusty “Five Boroughs” folding map led me unerringly to the narrow dead end street just off Castelton Avenue where the Meade residence, a two-story white Dutch Colonial with blue shutters, was nestled in a mini-forest of maples.

Parking beside a fire hydrant in the only available spot on the block, I used the rearview mirror to adjust my tie, a birthday gift from La Rowan. I climbed the steps to the front door and leaned on the buzzer.

“Yes?” Her face, although showing strain, was well-arranged and framed by sandy hair. She was wearing a man’s-style, white button-down dress shirt and jeans. Her light blue eyes considered me without making any apparent judgment.

“Mrs. Meade?”

“That’s right, I’m Sara Meade.”

All the way over from Manhattan, I’d been doping out how I was going to play it. Now I said: “My name is Archie Goodwin. I am a private investigator, employed by Nero Wolfe, and you probably have no interest whatever in talking to me, let alone inviting me into your house. I understand and respect that; I will only say that Mr. Wolfe feels strongly that your husband’s death was caused by someone other than the man who has been charged.”

One corner of her mouth twitched, but the expression in her eyes did not change. “Do you agree with your employer, Mr. Goodwin?” she asked in a voice that was at once soft and strong.

“I do.”

“I would ask for identification except that I recognize both the name and the face. Your picture has been in the newspapers before, hasn’t it?”

“A couple of times, yes.”

“More than a couple of times, I think. Please come in,” she said, stepping aside and ushering me into a large living room with a beamed ceiling, fireplace, and American Colonial furniture. “Please sit down. Can I offer you coffee? I just poured myself some. I hope you don’t mind — it’s hazelnut.”

I nodded and thanked her, and she was back with a steaming cup as I took a semi-comfortable chair. On the end table at my elbow was a chrome-framed photograph of Sara Meade, her husband, and a light-haired boy, presumably their son, who looked to be in his teens.

“I know of course from the papers and the TV news that Fred Durkin is a colleague of yours and Mr. Wolfe’s,” she said, easing onto the sofa. “Does that influence your belief in his innocence?”

“I can’t deny it, and I doubt that Mr. Wolfe would either, if you put the question to him. But it is precisely because Fred is a colleague, and because both of us have known him for so long, that we are convinced he is not a killer. It would be totally out of character for him.”

She frowned and took a sip of coffee. “But he is a detective. And he does carry a gun.”

“Yes. But I have never known him to draw it, except as a defensive gesture.” I neglected to mention that I had once been the beneficiary of one such gesture.

“And he also has a temper.”

I nodded, savoring the coffee. Fritz would have approved. “Yes, Mrs. Meade, he does. But, again, I probably know Fred Durkin better than anyone in the world outside of his own family and perhaps Nero Wolfe. I have seen his temper flare up on occasion, but to my knowledge, he has never — repeat, never — done violence to another individual in the heat of anger. That simply is not his style.”

“Even when he’s insulted?” Sara Meade set her cup carefully in its saucer and leaned forward. “I loved my husband, Mr. Goodwin — very much. But I was acutely aware of his shortcomings, as he was of mine. Despite being a minister, Roy could be extremely caustic and hard-edged. I understand he said some very harsh things to your friend in front of the Circle of Faith on... that night.”

“I understand the same thing, and I honestly believe that what your husband said to Fred would not have impelled Fred to lash back other than verbally — which, as you know, he did.”

She chewed absently on a finger. “Well, if Fred Durkin didn’t fire the gun, who did? Are you suggesting it was one of the Circle of Faith? There was no one else in the tabernacle.”

“Mr. Wolfe is not ruling that out, which is why I’m here. In the last few months, did your husband say anything to you that would suggest there was a rift between him and anyone at the Silver Spire? It may have been just a passing remark, something that you didn’t think much about at the time.”

She tapped the rim of her cup. “You’ve been very forthright and direct with me, Mr. Goodwin, and I appreciate that. I will be forthright in return. As I said a minute ago, Roy had a mercilessly critical side to him. He demanded a lot from the people he worked with, and he became impatient when they didn’t meet his expectations. At one time or another, he complained to me about almost every one of the church staff, from Barney on down.”

“What kind of complaints were they?”

“Oh, a variety,” she said, gesturing with her hand. “He came down particularly hard on Roger Gillis, which always bothered me because Roger seems like such an earnest, well-meaning young man. But Roy felt — and for all I know, he was right — that Roger was really in over his head as the director of education. On more than one occasion, he publicly said that Roger wasn’t a good administrator or a good organizer. Roy really wanted Roger out of the job, but he couldn’t budge Barney on the subject.”

“Is it true that your husband felt Bay was too easy on his staff?”

“Yes, that was a big beef of his. Roy had a phrase about Barney that he used several times: ‘He tolerates mediocrity in the interest of tranquillity.’ I think I’m the only one he ever said it to, though.”

“It’s not likely he bandied it about around the church. Your husband once saved Bay’s life, didn’t he?”

She nodded, suddenly looking very tired. “Yes, he rescued Barney from drowning years ago when they were ministerial students. But he never liked having the subject brought up, because he thought people would feel it was the reason Barney hired him.”

“Was it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But I think Roy long ago proved himself.”

“Did he talk much to you about other Circle of Faith members?” I asked.

“From time to time, usually out of frustration. He thought that Sam Reese was coasting in his job, that Lloyd Morgan was a functionary overly concerned with nit-picking, that Marley Wilkenson ran the music programs as a separate fiefdom and obstinately refused to answer to anyone.”

“What about Mrs. Reese and Mrs. Bay?”

She laughed, which was pleasant to hear. “Lord, I sound like the town gossip, don’t I? I’m glad you’re not taping this.”

“I’m not even taking notes.”

“Good. Well, Roy never liked Carola much — he thought she was kind of on the cheap side, although he conceded that she’s a fine singer. As far as Elise Bay, I can’t remember him criticizing her much; he mainly complained that she shouldn’t be in the Circle, that she was there only because of who she was. That bothered him about Carola, too.”

“As far as you know, were any of the Circle of Faith members having financial problems?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Roy never said anything about it that I can remember. And what you asked before — about whether there were rifts between him and any of the others. As we’ve talked, I’ve been thinking, and there was something Roy mentioned a few weeks back. I can’t even remember how the subject came up, but — oh, I know! — I was complaining to him about someone who works for me who was falling down on the job. I said I’d warned this person twice but there hadn’t been much improvement, and it looked like I was going to have to let him go. Then Roy said he had a staff problem, too, and that it would have to be dealt with.”

“Can you remember his exact words?”

She closed her eyes and made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Let’s see... I think he said something like ‘I’ve got a situation myself. It’s going to give one way or the other in the next few weeks. I’ve set a deadline.’”

“That was it?”

She nodded. “Yes. I asked him what he meant, what that situation was, but he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He just clammed up.”

“Was that unusual behavior?”

“Not really. I know from what I’ve been telling you that it sounds like Roy griped about the church to me all the time, but that’s really not so. I just lumped together all the things he complained about over the years. In fact, most of the time, he didn’t want to talk shop at all. I unloaded a lot more about my job than he did.”

“And he never brought it up again?”

“Never.”

“Did he seem particularly depressed recently?”

Sara inhaled and let the air out slowly. “No, I didn’t notice anything, and I think I’ve always been pretty sensitive to Roy’s moods.”

“One last thing: Have you been to the church to go through your husband’s effects?”

“Oh, I did stop in to pick up a box of things, and I need to go back again. What I got was mostly mementos and pictures of me and our son...” Her voice caught on the last three words. The calm facade was beginning to crumble, so I got to my feet.

“I’ve taken enough of your time, Mrs. Meade. I am grateful for your seeing me.” I handed her my card. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, I would appreciate a call.”

“I can’t honestly say that I wish you luck,” she replied softly, walking me to the door and shaking my hand with a firm grip, “but I do want to have the assurance that the right person is punished, whether it’s your Mr. Durkin or someone else.”

“I agree completely,” I said over my shoulder as I walked down the front steps, wondering how a guy as apparently disagreeable as Meade could end up with a woman like her.